


Identity Crisis

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Flirting, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 18:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: McCree and Hanzo are both after the same target at an upscale club.They both think it's each other.





	Identity Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the McHanzo Reverse Bang this year! My partner was ahdayum on Tumblr, and I was absolutely in love with the sketch they did and I was super excited to get to write for it. :D
> 
> Take a look at their absolutely gorgeous art here (no spoilers): http://ahdayumn.tumblr.com/post/177097808588/title-identity-crisis-rating-t-tags

This is probably the only building in the city that allows for smoking indoors, and McCree had paid dearly for the right.

Still, he thinks as he clenches a cigarillo between his lips, it’s nice to be able to have a smoke under actual shelter without someone shooting him a filthy look. That in and of itself was almost worth the cover charge to get into this joint. He lifts his old silver lighter to the cigarillo’s tip, listens to the crackle of the paper catching fire, and inhales the first heady mouthful of smoke with no small sense of satisfaction.

As he exhales, he lounges back on the squashy seat of the couch, surveying the lounge before him. This club is certainly swankier than most places he set foot nowadays. It takes up the whole of a two-story building: one wide room on the ground floor, with a balcony ringing the edge above for patrons to gaze down upon the scene below. The bar is tucked neatly into the back corner, and beside that is the cozy lounge where McCree is now situated. All of this is on a slightly raised area, slightly overlooking the dance floor that takes up the remaining half of the room, where a scant handful of couples dance together to the classical music played by the four-piece band in the corner. Somewhere not far behind, McCree can hear low chatter and the soft clicks of plastic betting chips, where those uninterested in just drink and dance try their hands at gambling in a quiet nook separated from the rest.

The furniture is all fine black leather and rich, polished oak, the wallpaper dark with a muted  _ fleur de lis _ pattern, the lights and fixtures all vaguely  _ classy _ in some old, traditional way that doesn’t quite match the modern city trappings just outside the door. All in all: a place for rich people to spend their not-inconsiderable free time. Not to McCree’s fancy at all.

It is, however, the fancy of one Desmond Rowe, who, according to the Overwatch dossier, frequents this establishment for both business and pleasure--where business tends to be of the arms-dealing variety. Not surprising, McCree thinks, taking another puff of his cigarillo--that kind of business pays well, and whether the money led to the business or vice versa, he rarely finds himself chasing down anyone whose yearly income has fewer than six zeroes. 

Speaking of . . .

McCree tips his head back to blow out another mouthful of smoke, letting it drift lazily toward the ceiling and dissipate, and casts a lazy glance around the room. Few of the faces had changed since he arrived here half an hour ago, and he’s catalogued and dismissed most of them as unimportant: a wide variety of folks both human and omnic, all dressed in black-tie suits and tasteful gowns or cocktail dresses. McCree looks the part, too, in a suit he’d had to find specifically for this mission, although under protest. He resists the urge to tug at his tie yet again, cursing the thing internally. Give him a pair of chaps and a ragged serape anyday.

But: what Overwatch needed, he did. For better or worse. Winston was adamant they look into this particular Talon agent while they had the chance, and it’s hardly the first time he’s rubbed shoulders with rich folk who made him squirm.

At least he’d gotten to keep his hat, even if it had made the host at the door grimace in disgust.

Eventually, McCree’s gaze alights on a figure across the room, standing beside the bar with a glass in hand. At this distance and in the dim lighting, it would be hard to be certain of anyone else, but the target’s appearance had been striking enough to leave a mark on McCree’s mind even from a digital photo--there’s no mistaking him now.

His heart pumping with the thrill of a new game, McCree stubs out his cigarillo in a cut-glass ashtray and gets to his feet.

Rowe doesn’t acknowledge him as he sidles up to the bar--indeed, Rowe doesn’t seem interested in anything besides the contents of his glass at the moment. McCree orders himself a bourbon, neat, and takes the opportunity to examine the man beside him as he waits. 

The photo in the dossier really didn’t do Rowe justice; up close, his profile is all sharp, angular features, with cunningly sharp eyes under intense brows and a perfectly manicured beard. His inky black hair is slicked back from his face except for a lock of his bangs, which hangs dashingly over his brow. He wears a classic white-tie tuxedo, tailored over his broad shoulders and trim waist, and looks so comfortable in it that it seems he was born to do nothing more than dress up and socialize in circles just like this.

McCree’s drink comes, and he has to drag his eyes away. He can’t help but think that under different circumstances, he would seriously consider whether he could charm his way into this man’s bed before the night was out.

Well, he amends to himself. Let’s not rule anything out.

He sips his drink as he considers his next move, letting the fine bourbon roll across his tongue. It’s smoky and subtly sweet, with only a hint of the burn that his typical fare usually brings in spades. These people have more money than sense, but at least they have good taste in bourbon, too. As he swallows, he hears a low voice say, “Your hat is ridiculous.”

He glances over. Rowe is watching him over the top of his drink, his eyes narrowed, contemplative. McCree gets the distinct feeling he’s being judged according to some criteria he’s not privy to.

“My hat?” he repeats innocently.

“The last time I checked, a cowboy hat was not a standard accessory to a three-piece suit.” He sounds disdainful, but there’s a hint of a smile lurking around the corner of his mouth. 

“Well now,” McCree says, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with breaking tradition here and there.” He gives the offending hat a charming tip in Rowe’s direction. “Especially when it gets me the attention of a handsome fella or two.”

Rowe snorts into his glass. “You should be careful about the kind of attention you attract.”

_ No shit _ , McCree thinks wryly. 

Out loud, he says, “Are you suggesting you’re the bad kind of attention?”

“I am suggesting,” Rowe replies, “that both your fashion and your common sense may need some work.” The sting of the insult is softened by the amused glimmer in his eyes, and he adds, “But perhaps it could be worse.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m fairly certain bad attention should be more worried about me than the other way ‘round.”

“Is that so?” Now that there is genuine interest, McCree observes, in the way that Rowe’s gaze flickers down his figure and up again. He drains his glass and sets it aside, the motion subtly turning his body toward McCree. 

McCree suppresses his victorious grin into an easy smile. He nods towards Rowe’s empty glass. “Can I buy you another?”

Rowe seems to take a moment to consider this, one eyebrow slightly cocked as he regards McCree. Finally, he says, “I suppose that is acceptable.” He turns away to wave down the bartender, and McCree allows himself a private second of triumph. He’ll have this one in the bag by night’s end.

 

\--

 

Hanzo had expected this to be a lot more difficult.

With a fresh vodka tonic in hand, he allows the cowboy to lead him back from the bar, toward the lounge and the leather couch he had seen the man occupying earlier. He considers, briefly, simply slipping a knife between the man's ribs and being done with it, but decides against it--he hasn't learned anything yet, and no matter how discreet he was, a man collapsing and bleeding out in the middle of the room was bound to draw attention.

The dossier he had received on tonight’s target had been straightforward--a wealthy business owner who frequently conducted his work at an upscale club in America, who had a predilection for men and women equally and few qualms about dealing weapons to the highest bidders. Hanzo’s employer was not terribly picky about whether the man was caught dead or alive, but did want any information that could be gathered beforehand about his most recent dealings. Hanzo has privately wondered just how much his employer expects him to get, considering that Rowe is unlikely to spill the details of his illicit dealings to a stranger, but that is ultimately secondary to the end goal.

Although, as he eyes the cowboy--for that is the only thing Hanzo can think of when he sees the hat--in front of him, Hanzo has a hard time believing that this man is such a threat. 

Rowe settles comfortably into the corner of the couch, arms draped across the back and side. He crosses one long leg over the other, letting his drink dangle too-casually from his fingertips. “So," he says. "What brings a  _ dangerous _ man like you out here?"

Hanzo takes a seat, sitting straight-backed a foot away. "Business," he replies coolly. "I had been hoping to meet an associate tonight . . . although it seems he may have forgotten.”

"What kind of business?"

Hanzo arches an eyebrow at him, but Rowe either doesn't notice or ignores it. "A simple business deal. Or, at least, it should be. Not terribly interesting." He sips his drink. Rowe watches him with mild interest. "What about yourself? I have a hard time believing cowboys have much to do in places such as this."

Rowe shrugs, an easy smile coming across his face. "More pleasure than business," he says. "Just lookin' for a good time."

Hanzo hides a huff, one part amused and the rest disbelieving, behind his drink. Nothing about this man says  _ international weapons dealer _ . Everything about his posture is too lazy, too comfortable, as though he really has come here tonight with the intention of flirting and drinking and nothing more. 

Then again, Hanzo knows better than to underestimate anyone. 

“And what constitutes a good time for you, then?” he asks. “Besides drinking whiskey in upscale clubs, of course.”

“Well now . . . I got a few interests.”

They chat for some time, flowing easily from one topic to the next; they debate the finer points of their tastes in alcohol (there is no common ground to be found on the whiskey versus sake debate, but they do share an appreciation for darker rums) and superficially discuss shooting for sport (Hanzo wonders if Rowe has ever held anything more intimidating than a pellet gun, although he himself has not touched a firearm in almost a year), and banter back and forth with cutting observations about the club’s other patrons. Rowe, Hanzo finds, has an amusingly dry sense of humor and a surprisingly sharp wit, as well as a remarkable and irritating talent for not giving away even a hint of useful information. Any time Hanzo subtly tries to push the conversation toward Rowe’s associates or his dealings, regardless of how he goes about it, Rowe easily deflects with a quip or a question.

But Hanzo is just as proficient at avoiding topics he does not want to address, and he can see the faintest flicker of annoyance cross Rowe’s face every time he moves away from topics of his own work. That, at least, is satisfying enough, and makes some of the conversation almost enjoyable.

Hanzo begrudgingly admits, too, that Rowe is not unattractive. The client’s dossier had included a photo, but Rowe’s face in it had been frowning, severe, and his clothing dusty. Tonight, i n a  fine dinner jacket and slacks in a deep emerald green, accented with a silver waistcoat and a black tie and gloves, he cuts a much more refined figure. His features are square and strong, but he is much more expressive than the photo initially suggested, his smiles open and his eyes lively. He is handsomer than Hanzo had expected going in, and though the fact changes nothing about tonight’s job, he can at least preen under the attentions of someone who is genuinely interesting.

Finally, as they close in on half an hour of conversation, Rowe gives a weary sort of laugh. Hanzo raises a brow at him, and Rowe answers the unspoken question with, “I gotta say, you’re really playing hard to get here, darlin’. We can talk all day about the weather and what we think of everyone’s clothes, but I wanna know more about you.”

Hanzo smiles serenely, propping his head in his hand. “You say that as if you are not doing the same thing.”

That draws another laugh. “Alright. That’s fair. Guess I’m not real used to talkin’ about myself anymore.”

“Nor am I.”

A short silence falls between them. Hanzo glances about the room, thinking of his next move. It is far too early yet to give up on fishing for information, and he doubts he has had Rowe’s attention long enough to try to get him alone. 

His gaze is drawn to the curtain separating a small side room away from the main part of the club. Through the small space between the curtains, he can see the tables where other patrons have set up to play cards. He had browsed the tables earlier in the evening and dismissed them as uninteresting, not one to play games where luck could outweigh skill. Now, however, . . .

“I have another idea, if you are interested,” Hanzo says. Rowe’s eyes immediately lock onto his, bright with interest.

“What's that, then?”

Hanzo nods toward the adjoined room. “What are your thoughts on poker? Perhaps a question answered for each hand one of us wins? I am certain they will ask us to make bets with money, but I am sure no one will mind if we make a bet or two of our own on the side.” And if Hanzo happens to have learned to count cards at age fourteen and had a hand in the operations of a couple of Japanese casinos during the course of his upbringing, well--that is no one's business but his own.

Rowe's grin is sharp, wolf-like and pleased. “I’m always up for a round or two,” he says.

“Good.” Hanzo tips back the last of his drink and sets the glass on the nearby table with a definitive clink. “Shall we, then?”

 

\--

 

McCree is one part delighted and two parts annoyed to find that Rowe is stupidly good at poker.

He’d anticipated a little bit of a challenge, of course--people didn’t offer up a game of poker if they didn’t think they were good at it--but McCree isn’t accustomed to his skills actually being tested anymore. He and Rowe had bought their way into a table with two others, but their companions are barely of note. The woman with the purple-streaked hair had won a hand by pure luck early on but seems bored by the whole thing; the man in the ill-fitting navy suit keeps getting just close enough to winning that he stays around. McCree has long since lost interest in them, paying the barest amount of attention to stay ahead.

Rowe, on the other hand, is a stony-faced pain in a fancy tux. He’s won three hands now, and McCree’s gotten two, neither of them quite keeping ahead of the other. Their piles of chips continually shrink and grow between them, occasionally gaining a few from the others at the table. 

It's both infuriating and one of the best games he’s ever played.

“Shoulda known you’d be a real card shark when you invited me to play,” he remarks to Rowe, sitting at his left. Eying the ten and the jack in his hand, he slides a couple of $25 chips into the pot. 

Rowe chuckles, a low, gravelly sound that simultaneously makes McCree feel like he's being judged and sends a little jolt through his gut. “Did you expect anything less?” he asks. He matches McCree's bet without hesitation. The woman stares at her hand, sighs wearily, and folds. 

“Well, I wouldn't say I expected you to be bad. But I’ll admit, I ain't used to having anyone give me a real run for my money these days.” McCree makes no pretense of watching the last man at the table as he places the last bet. He clearly thinks he's going to win this time, just like he has the last four hands, but has yet to do so. Rowe is much more interesting a sight.

“I could say the same.” 

They lay out their hands. McCree's straight flush trumps Rowe's four-of-a-kind and blows the last man’s hand out of the water. McCree smiles pleasantly at Rowe’s dour face and says, “That pulls us even again.”

“For now.” Rowe collects his cards, taps them neatly into a pile, and places them in front of the man in the navy suit. The man scowls, agitated that his three-of-a-kind still wasn’t enough, but gathers all the cards to shuffle and deal. Fool man doesn’t know when to quit, McCree thinks. It’s probably unfair to play against Rowe and McCree both, but anyone with a bit of sense should know when to quit. 

“For now,” McCree agrees, “and I play to keep it that way.”

He doesn’t. The next round, astoundingly, goes to the third man at the table, who grins and gloats about his winnings despite them making up only a fraction of his losses. The next goes to Rowe, who casts McCree a smug smile as he gathers up his chips, only to lose half of them again when McCree takes the round after. The woman struggles to keep any chips in front of her, but the losses don’t seem to bother her muc, and she only shrugs as she slides each new bet into the middle of the table.

It’s the most fun McCree’s had playing poker in ages.

Finally, both of the others fold for good and depart the table, their interest in the game finally spent--as well as a good portion of their funds. McCree chuckles as he watches them go and places his cards on the table. 

“Well,” he says, looking over at Rowe, “looks like that leaves us at four questions each, if my math’s right.”

“Indeed,” Rowe replies. “You are a surprisingly competent player.”

McCree lets the backhanded compliment slide. “I’m full of surprises.”

“So it seems.”

They cash out, padding their bank accounts nicely, and make their way back out into the main part of the club. “Shall we?” Rowe asks as he gestures out toward the lounge again, but McCree shakes his head. 

“Actually,” he says. “I was wonderin’ if you might like to join me for a dance?”

The naked surprise on Rowe's face is the most expressive he has been all night, and McCree can't help a chuckle at the sight. “Unless you're no good at dancin’,” he teases, and that does the trick: surprise melts back into composed self-assurance, and Rowe snorts derisively.

“I assure you that is not the case,” he says. “I am merely surprised. I assumed all you knew how to do was a square dance.”

“Among others.”  McCree offers his hand. “But I can do a bit more when the situation calls for it.”

Rowe takes his hand, and they head for the floor. They reach the dance floor just as the band in the corner finishes up their most recent piece. They step together and Rowe seems content to let McCree take the lead; Rowe’s right arm held against McCree’s left with their hands on each other’s shoulders, their free hands clasped together to the side. They easily fall into a rhythm between the other dancers as the new piece begins, finding their place to step into the flow.

McCree lets a few moments pass, allowing them both to adjust to the new tempo and himself to subtly admire the handsome man in his hold. “Now that we got ourselves a little privacy,” he says, “I wouldn't mind gettin’ my questions.”

“You won the last hand, so I will grant you the first question.”

“Alright then.” McCree thinks for a moment. They step forward and back in sync, Rowe flawlessly moving in to fill McCree's space and falling back again in an easy push and pull. The tempo’s a little too slow for a properly impressive waltz, but nonetheless McCree admires the ease with which Rowe follows his steps. “Where’d you learn to dance like this? Can't imagine a businessman spendin’ much time doin’ this. You learn when you were younger?”

“No. My family never felt this was a necessary skill, so I taught myself as an adult. You say it seems useless, but it is quite helpful for functions like these, among others.”

“I see. Ain't half-bad at it.” Rowe dips his head slightly, acknowledging the compliment. “Alright. What's your first question, then?”

“The same, to start. Where did you learn?”

“Honestly? Work.”

Rowe’s smile is restrained, but his eyes glimmer with amusement. “Really.”

“My old boss thought it’d be helpful. It was, here and there, but I think he mostly did it just to be funny.” At Rowe’s look of polite confusion, McCree continues, “I wasn’t quite the same gentleman back then as I am now. He made the same jokes about me you are and then some, so, y’know.”

Rowe laughs again, that rumbling chuckle that makes McCree genuinely wish that their meeting was under better circumstances. “I can only imagine. What kind of work did you do that required that?”

“Now, I thought it was my turn for a question.”

“My apologies.” He doesn’t look apologetic at all. “What is your next question, then?”

McCree takes a moment to think. Rowe watches him patiently. McCree leads them through two slightly more rapid spins, then backwards through another half-circle, and continues on around the floor’s edge. Only two other pairs are dancing, which allows them a certain measure of privacy and most of the floor. 

McCree finally settles on, “Where are you from? Pardon if I’m oversteppin’, but you don’t sound like you’re from the States.” He could be wrong, of course, but Rowe had a faint accent that suggested something other than English as his first language. 

Rowe doesn’t immediately answer. He follows McCree’s lead as he steps out into a short spin, tethered by their outstretched arms, before moving back into McCree’s space with such an easy grace that McCree is, begrudgingly, impressed. The strong muscles of his thighs flex subtly under his fitted slacks. “I grew up in Japan,” he says as they resume their step. “In a smaller village, somewhat far removed from the larger cities.”

McCree blinks, but hides his surprise behind the same bland smile. “Japan, huh? That’s some distance.”

The dossier had said Nevada. 

“Indeed,” Rowe says mildly, “but I spent some time in and out of America in my youth on family business before I came here.”

That’s no better. A lie, perhaps? Given his particular business, it wouldn’t be surprising if Rowe lied about most or all of his history. The accent didn’t mean much--he could easily have grown up speaking Japanese before English.

McCree files the thought away, hoping he can learn more soon enough, and says, “Well, fair enough. What do you wanna know next?”

 

\--

 

Hanzo sees the way Rowe reacts to being told about Japan. It’s very brief, only the faintest confusion evident in a blink that takes a fraction of a moment too long, but it was there. He wonders what Rowe might have expected as an answer.

The thought is put to the side, but not dismissed, as he instead asks his own question for their game. “Where did you get this prosthesis?”

“Hm?”

“Your left arm. I can feel the metal.” Hanzo grimaces, realizing too late how the inquiry comes across. “Apologies if that is a rude question.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m just so used to it I kinda forgot it was there.” Rowe takes a moment to think, gaze flickering up and to the side, though his rhythm in their dance never falters. Hanzo is a little impressed by the ease with which Rowe leads--ballroom dancing was not a skill he had expected him to have. “I, uh . . . got into some trouble, a few years back. Guess you could say my past caught up with me. Ended up with the arm as a result.”

Hanzo latches onto the answer, the first real glimpse he has gotten into Rowe’s background in the last hour and a half. “Oh? May I ask what kind of trouble that would be? And yes, I would like that to be my next question,” he interrupts as Rowe opens his mouth to interject. 

Rowe purses his lips. Hanzo does not offer an apology this time. Finally, Rowe gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I already mentioned I wasn’t a real stellar kid,” he says. “I used to run with some folks when I was younger who were . . . not quite the lawful sort.”

“A gang.”

“Yeah. They weren’t too happy when I got out and started tryin’ to do something better for myself. They weren’t a small group by any means, either, so when we crossed paths a few years ago . . .” He trails off, letting Hanzo fill in the blanks for himself. 

“I see,” Hanzo murmurs, feeling a strange pang of sympathy in his chest. He can relate. Even if he is still an assassin and Rowe is, for some reason, still trading weapons, there is something to be said about trying to break away from one’s past.

Those two facts--Rowe’s apparent attempt at redemption and his current career--grate against each other in Hanzo’s mind. 

“I am sorry to hear about that,” he says. “I had assumed an accident of some sort.”

“Nah. It’s in the past. Least the arm was the only thing they got, right?”

Hanzo hums his agreement, but his mind is elsewhere. Thinking back on the dossier his employer sent, Hanzo does not recall many details about Rowe’s past being listed, but he is certain there was no mention of gang activity. No, thinking of it now, there had been a very simple, straightforward description:  _ Subject has a largely unremarkable past, growing up the son of a wealthy family and inheriting his mother’s business upon her retirement ten years ago. It’s uncertain how he came upon arms-dealing after that, but he has been particularly prolific in the last few years. _

It is possible, Hanzo concedes, that Rowe would keep such a history under wraps as much as possible--any misstep could become a weapon for one’s own destruction in the world of politics and business, an environment Hanzo remembers all too well. Still, it seems unlikely it would not have come up while engaging in criminal activities that were arguably just as severe, if not more so. 

Or perhaps he is simply very good at playing a part.

The silence stretches on too long, and Hanzo realizes they have both become distracted. “It is your turn for a question,” he prompts Rowe when it seems that none is forthcoming. 

“Right.”

Another long moment passes. One song ends and another begins. Rowe says, “What were you  _ really _ here for tonight?”

Hanzo blinks. “What do you mean? I believe I told you I was here on business.”

“And your man never showed, yeah. But I’m thinkin’ maybe there wasn’t another man at all.” Rowe’s pleasant smile spreads into a sultry smirk. “Sounds to me like somethin’ someone says when they’re playin’ hard to get.”

“Or perhaps it is something someone says when they are waiting for a meeting.” 

“Well now. Meetin’ someone in a place this fancy, dressin’ up in a suit that nice--they musta been some kind of business partner for all that. Or . . .” Rowe’s hand slips into the dip of Hanzo’s waist, suggestive without overstepping. “Maybe you were hopin’ for something a little more interesting to come your way tonight.”

With a coy tip of his head, Hanzo pretends to consider this. “Perhaps,” he agrees. “Or perhaps I was merely stood up by someone with a poor sense of responsibility, and lucky enough that there was something else interesting enough to catch my attention.” Hanzo lets go of Rowe’s hand to reach up and tweak the edge of his hat, reminding him that the offensive accessory was the reason he noticed (or, at least, that Hanzo was pretending was the the reason he noticed) Rowe’s presence at all.

“Perhaps,” Rowe echoes, unconvinced. He swats Hanzo’s hand away from his hat playfully, and Hanzo lets it fall on Rowe’s shoulder, instead. He is mildly surprised to feel genuinely strong muscle under the jacket, not just the bone structure of lucky genetics. Rowe’s eyes flicker down to the touch, eyelids drooping ever so slightly. 

“I know my final question, then,” Hanzo says. 

“Shoot, sugar.”

“Why do you want to know so badly?” 

“Because,” Rowe replies easily, “I’d hate to think I was takin’ you away from something more  _ important _ .” 

“That cannot be all.”

“Well, that’s the gist. I managed to get the attention of a handsome fella, who clearly doesn’t hate my look as much as he claimed. Can’t blame me if want to keep that attention to myself.” His hand on Hanzo’s waist tightens slightly, fingertips putting pressure on his skin even through all the layers of his suit.

In response, Hanzo slips his hand up, slowly, over the curve of the trapezius and resting on the side of his neck. He brushes his thumb along the exposed skin just over the top of his shirt collar and watches Rowe’s lips part around his next breath. The rhythm of their dance starts to slow, forgotten in the face of something much more interesting.

“Can I ask my last, then?” Rowe asks, voice low and rumbling up from his chest.

“That is only fair.”

Rowe bends in close, much closer than they have been the rest of the evening, his chest brushing against Hanzo’s own. His lips just graze the curve of Hanzo’s ear, and the warmth of his breath sends a traitorous shiver down Hanzo’s spine. 

“What do you think about gettin’ out of here?” he asks. 

It takes Hanzo a longer second than he expects to compose himself again. He tips his head slightly to the side, letting his lips just graze the edge of Rowe’s cheekbone as he replies, “I would like that very much.”

The last song comes to an end. Rowe steps back and Hanzo feels momentarily off-balance by the sudden space between them. “Well then,” he says. “No time like the present.”

Hanzo excuses himself to the restroom before they go, leaving Rowe behind. In the privacy of the ridiculously gilded bathroom stall he rechecks his weapons--a thin stiletto blade strapped to each calf, a couple of throwing knives tucked inside his right forearm and a fine needle coated in a deadly toxin, tucked into a slim case inside of his jacket. He takes out the case and opens it, eying the needle nestled in the protective velvet. Its length gleams faintly with the oily sheen of the toxin covering it, a potent mix that will arrest the victim’s breathing within a couple of minutes. It will be the work of an instant to get close enough and prick Rowe's skin, and after that, Hanzo can leave him to choke in his own hotel room for the cleaning staff to find in the morning.

Although . . . 

Hanzo taps his fingertip against the case. He wonders if this particular assassination is truly necessary. Perhaps not, all things considered. While dealing weapons was far from a victimless crime, it was perhaps not the kind of crime that required this kind of intervention. His employer, frankly, did not seem to care as long as he reported back and confirmed that Rowe was in some way removed from his dealings, whether by detainment or death. 

Hanzo catches himself thinking this and makes a disgusted noise. He is becoming too soft, letting himself be charmed by a roguish smile and a few compliments. Disgusting. 

No, Rowe will die tonight as planned. With great care, Hanzo works the needle into the mechanism built into his watch, where a quick flick of his wrist will release it at the right moment, and he departs the bathroom to finish what he has started.

Rowe is waiting for him near the club’s entrance, making a show of checking an old-fashioned pocket watch. When he catches sight of Hanzo, he smiles, anticipating and earnest, and Hanzo feels another flicker of hesitation. Hanzo is very good at seduction when the job requires it, but he has spent next to no time seeking attention on his own in the last number of years, and it feels nicer than he expects to be the focus of that kind of attention again. It’s tempting to take advantage of the night they have set up, just to indulge in an hour or two of touch and warmth, and finish the job afterward.

He shakes the thoughts from his head. Tempting though it is, he knows that a brief night of meaningless sex will be only temporarily satisfying at best, scratching an itch but leaving behind a deeper wound. There are reasons he remains in solitude, and it is better not to give into shallow temptations. 

“Ready to get goin’?” Rowe asks. He offers his arm in true gentlemanly fashion, as though he were escorting Hanzo home instead of (in theory) to a hotel room for a questionable one-night stand. It’s almost endearing. 

“Of course,” Hanzo replies smoothly, slipping his arm through Rowe’s. “Lead the way.”

 

\--

 

Together, they step out into the night. McCree tips his hat at the host and wishes him a good evening; the host shoots him a filthy look. 

“I take it he does not care for your attire,” Rowe says as they walk down the street. It is well into the night by this point, their way lit by the sterile white of the street lamps. The street is quiet, save for the two men, and McCree hopes his luck holds--the fewer witnesses to their passing, the better.

“Nah,” McCree replies with a smirk. “Can’t say he did. But he ain’t the one whose opinion on it matters.”

The evening air is cool and crisp, and the city is surprisingly quiet, save for the occasional whine of a hovercar as it passes on the street. For the first time tonight, they lapse into a companionable silence, strangely comfortable. McCree can’t help but relax, just a little, even though he knows better.  _ It’s a mission _ , he reminds himself, but it doesn’t stop him from wishing again that perhaps it was something different. He can hardly count himself as genuinely interested in the man beside him--even he knows better than to try it on with an international weapons dealer--but it’s been a little while now since he’s shared his bed with anyone. If he didn’t know better, he’d be thinking of breakfast invitations for the morning after. 

And shit, Rowe’s handsome, and the warmth of his body pressed to McCree’s side really isn’t helping matters at all.

Alas, it isn’t meant to be. Maybe he’ll get some good sex out of it before arranging to have Rowe turned over to the proper authorities. 

McCree leads them on down the street, toward the little hotel he’s holed up for the night on Overwatch’s dollar, letting himself enjoy the pleasant warmth of attraction and the thrill of anticipation. By the faint smile on Rowe’s face, he’s just as eager, if a little more subdued about it, and McCree privately congratulates himself on a job well done.

“Here,” he says after a few minutes have passed, gently tugging Rowe’s arm to guide them toward the opening of a side street. It’s empty and quiet, still damp with recent rains. “Bit faster if we cut through here.”

He feels Rowe immediately tense beside him, his arm whipcord stiff where it links through McCree’s, and that is all the warning he gets.

McCree bites out a curse as Rowe suddenly turns on him, throwing a punch aimed straight at his jaw. He managed to duck out of the way just in time, but Rowe is ruthless, quickly following up with a series of strikes that keep him on the defensive without so much as a gap to retaliate. 

McCree smirks wryly as he gets his hands up in front of him, finding his stance. “Guess you figured me out, then,” he says. He catches Rowe's fist against his forearm, twists his hand, and catches Rowe's wrist, but an incoming blow on his other side forces him to turn away. The hit still glances his ribs, and he bites back a pained grunt, but has no time to nurse the wound as Rowe throws another punch that he barely manages to avoid.

“I have known who you are since the beginning,” Rowe replies coolly. He barely flinches as they trade blows. He’s surprisingly quick, his movements those of a well-trained fighter rather than a lazy businessman.

“That so.” McCree sidesteps, catches Rowe’s wrist, loses it again instantly as Rowe twists out of his grip. “Took you an awful long  time to make a move. Taken by my charm, then?”

Rowe doesn't rise to the bait like McCree hopes, but a humorless smile curls the corner of his mouth. “Charm will not save your life.”

“Shit, I know I got a bounty, but I didn’t think folks were sendin’  _ assassins _ nowadays.” He dips around another punched aimed at his gut, spins, jabs an elbow backwards at Rowe’s face that he barely manages to jerk away from. The man is ridiculously fast, much more so than McCree would have guessed. He’s starting to worry a little. 

If nothing else, at least it’s an interesting challenge. 

“Gotta hand it to ya Rowe, you’re puttin’ up more of a fight than I thought you would,” McCree says, more breathless than he means to sound. 

The expression that crosses Rowe’s face is strange: outright confusion. “What are you talking about?” he demands. His foot snaps out in a kick to McCree’s chest, not allowing for time to answer, and McCree catches Rowe’s ankle against his metal wrist and shoves it away as he slides around to the side.

“Didn’t think some weapon-dealin’ bureaucrat could hold his own like this,” McCree says. He throws a punch to demonstrate, his point made when Rowe easily catches it again. “Not that it matters much--”

“You called me Rowe,” the man says. 

“That’s your name, ain’t it?”

“That is  _ yours _ .”

Now McCree’s confused, and he makes the mistake of letting it trip him up. “What?” he sputters, and Rowe catches him in the gut with a sharp jab that knocks the wind from his lungs. He stumbles back, but Rowe is right on top of him, and he seizes the front of McCree’s shirt in his fist and shoves him backward against the wall. His other hand snaps up, and the deadly point of a needle ejects from the underside of his wristwatch, a mere fraction of an inch from McCree’s throat. He doesn’t need to ask to know it’s probably poisoned.

“Now hold on there,” McCree says, holding up his hands. Rowe’s hand releases its grip on his jacket, only for his forearm to press across his throat. The sturdy weight of his body presses McCree against the wall, as though he would dare to fight back with the threat glinting at his neck.

“Who are you?” the man McCree thought was named Rowe demands. “Why did you call  _ me _ Rowe?”

McCree sucks in a careful breath between his teeth, eying the needle that is far too near to his skin for his liking. It does not waver. “You sayin’ you’re not Rowe, then? Desmond Rowe?” 

“Of course I am not. I am here because I am  _ hunting _ Rowe.” The now-unnamed man bares his teeth in a snarl, and he puts more pressure on McCree’s throat. “Do not lie to me, fool. It will not spare you--”

“I ain’t lyin’,” McCree says as calmly as he can manage. “Swear on my mama’s grave, that ain’t my name and I ain’t your man. I was here for the same reason.”

The man narrows his eyes in further suspicion. McCree tenses, preparing to fight or activate his comm for the immediate medical help he’ll no doubt need if that needles pricks him.

His phone gives a little chime in his pocket.

 

\--

 

Hanzo’s phone pings in his pocket. 

He frowns at that; his phone is always on silent when he is working. He hasn’t made such a basic error as  _ leaving his phone on _ since he was a child. By the way the other man’s (for now Hanzo’s uncertain whether this is actually  _ Rowe _ ) face contorts with confusion as a pleasant melody trills from his pants pocket, he is just as surprised.

Hanzo pulls the poisoned needle away, clicking it back into its sheath, and retrieves his phone. The other man does the same.

Both screens show an unusual image: a stylized, borderline cartoonish sugar skull in vivid purple. Hanzo moves to touch the screen, but the holovid clicks on before he can, projecting up the 3D image of a tan-skinned woman with purple-streaked hair. 

“What the shit,” says the other man. Hanzo internally echoes the sentiment. 

The woman smiles and waves, playfully curling fingers tipped with long, claw-like nails. “Hola _ ,”  _ she says. “ _ Sounds like you two finally figured it out. Only took you way longer than anyone thought it would. _ ”

“Who are you?” Hanzo demands with a snarl. 

_ “Oh, you can call me Sombra if you want, but I think you have other things to worry about. _ ”

“You were playing poker,” the other man says. Hanzo looks again and yes, though the hairstyle and the outfit have changed, the woman’s face and the purple streaks are familiar. “You’ve been tailing us all night, haven’t you? What do you want?”

Sombra laughs softly.  _ “Me?  _ Nada _ ,” _ she says.  _ “My job was just to keep you guys off the real Rowe, which I did. Swapped your dossiers, like, four days ago. Rowe’s long gone, by the way, so I wouldn’t bother going to look for him. All I was doing tonight was making sure the whole thing worked out. Which it did.” _

“So you are with Talon,” Hanzo says, gritting his teeth. He sees the other man’s gaze flick toward him at the mention of the organization’s name, but ignores it. If Rowe was his target as well, then he must already know. 

_ “Guilty as charged.” _

The other man lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, visibly restraining rage. Hanzo, figuring the danger has passed in favor of their mutual confusion, finally releases his grip and backs away, letting the man step away from the wall. 

_ “Man, you guys should see the looks on your faces.” _

“So what is your goal now?” Hanzo asks, ignoring the jab. “I assure you, if you plan to kill us because of our interf--”

“ _ Nah, I don’t care about that. I just had a job to do. Plus, I thought it might be funny to watch the two of you try to flirt at each other until you figured it out.” _

The other man works his jaw, frustrated and thoughtful at once. “You know,” he says slowly, “You got some of your details wrong in there. He’s sure as hell not from Nevada. Nor am I, for that matter, not that it came up.”

She’s shaking her head before he even finishes the sentence, however.  _ “I didn’t need you busy for long,” _ she replies.  _ “Just long enough for Rowe to get out of there. Believe me, Jesse, I know everything about you and more.” _

The man flinches, just slightly, at the name. Hanzo glances at him. He does look much more like a Jesse than a Desmond. 

_ “Anyway, I think we’ve all had our fun for tonight. Don’t let me hold you boys any longer. Say hi to your brother for me, Hanzo.” _ Hanzo starts, and an angry demand is on the tip of his tongue, but Sombra winks and waves good-bye before the display blinks out on both phones, leaving the screens dark and silent. 

“Jesus Christ,” says Jesse, staring at his phone. “I heard her name before, but I didn’t think--” He seems to realize something suddenly and looks again at Hanzo. “Hell, darlin’. Guess I owe you a bit of an apology for tonight, then.”

Hanzo grits his teeth, holding back an angry retort. After taking a moment to school his anger, he manages to reply, “And I owe you one as well. It seems we were both fooled by this woman. You know of her?”

“Just a bit. She’s a bit of a loose cannon, but she’s been workin’ for Talon the last little while, far as I can tell. Real talented hacker.” Jesse groans quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Hell, this means all sorts of security bullshit if she managed to swap our info.”

“Indeed.”

Jesse wipes his hand down his face, covering his mouth with his hand. He spends a moment standing like that, eyes closed, while he appears to think. Hanzo is debating his own next step when Jesse opens his eyes and pins him with a look. 

“How much of what you told me tonight was true?” he asks.

Hanzo blinks at the non-sequitur. “Excuse me?”

“When we were talkin’. I imagine you fed me a couple lies for the sake of your cover, but I also know the best lies are based on truth. Technically, everything I said tonight was true. So how much of yours was real?”

Slowly, Hanzo answers, “Most of it.”

Inexplicably, Jesse grins. It’s a little different from the way he’s smiled the rest of the night, more boyish but no less charming. It strikes Hanzo, for no reason that he can discern, as  _ honest _ . “What do you say to gettin’ a drink then?”

“What.” Jesse shrugs casually, and Hanzo laughs, unable to help himself. “Ridiculous,” he says. “You would ask for a date after I nearly killed you? Knowing what I do?”

“What can I say? You’re still a pretty face and now that the job’s a bust, I find myself with a little free time. ‘Sides, I’m sure you’ve realized by now that we’re not so different, if we managed to run into each other on the same job. Find myself a little relieved you’re not tradin’ missiles, really.”  Jesse tips his hat up on the back of his curled index finger. “Interested?”

Hanzo, against all his instincts, is interested, and he has to take a genuine moment to consider. He steps back slightly, makes a show of dragging his gaze down Jesse’s figure and up again, allows himself to admire the way the suit jacket--now scuffed and a little rumpled--pulls across his chest and the trousers cling to his strong thighs. He already knows his answer, but there is no harm in playing the game while he can.

“I am,” he says, and as Jesse’s face lights up, “but perhaps another time. Unlike you, I have other matters to attend to, even after the loss.”

“Well now. That’s a shame.” Jesse deflates, but the easy smile remains: disappointed but not begrudging Hanzo for his answer.

“Perhaps if our paths cross again.”

“I hope so.”

Hanzo does too, he realizes.

Jesse holds out a hand. “Good luck, then. Hope your next job goes a little better.”

“To you as well.” Hanzo takes Jesse’s hand for a companionable shake, but is surprised when Jesse’s grip changes and lifts Hanzo’s hand to his mouth instead. He brushes a kiss over the back of Hanzo’s leather-clad knuckles, breath warm even through the fine material. 

Hanzo stares at him. Jesse offers another playful smile, looking up through his dusty brown lashes. 

“Have a good one, Hanzo,” he says. He releases Hanzo’s hand, takes a step back, spins casually on his heel, and departs down the alleyway with his hands in his pockets.

Hanzo stays where he is, watching until Jesse disappears from view around the corner. He huffs a laugh, drawing his thumb over the back of his other hand. 

It is probably his imagination, but the leather still feels warm against his skin.


End file.
